


Castiel's Attempts

by Annabelle_W



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Fluff, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-03-20 23:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13728075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annabelle_W/pseuds/Annabelle_W
Summary: Chuck gives Castiel an unusual mission--to get Sam and Dean together.





	1. Prologue

Castiel's POV:

I'm in my room at the Bunker watching Doctor Who on Dean's laptop. The Winchesters passed out in their respective rooms hours ago after what I suspect was more drinks than even they normally have. I wasn't counting. I was just enjoying a rare quiet evening with my two best friends. Watching an inebriated Sam (rosy cheeks, bright eyes, damp curls) compare the dragons in The Hobbit, Harry Potter, and Game of Thrones to the real ones he'd encountered or read about. An equally inebriated Dean (sleeves rolled up, lips even pinker, eyes somehow greener) called him a nerd, a geek, and a dork while listening avidly before joining in with intelligent, knowledgeable questions. Their discussion didn't end until Sam murmured "Night" before almost falling into his room and Dean stumbled down the hallway to his own. He pushed his laptop into my hands as he closed the door. "Here, go watch something," he slurred. "Not porn." Doctor Who isn't porn.

"I never could decide if I most wanted to do Amy or River. Or the Doctor."

A small, unassuming man with a light-colored beard and nondescript clothes is standing a few feet away from me.

"Chuck!" I gasp. "Are you back?"

"No. I'm just here to give you a mission."

I stand up, a secret thrill racing through me. A mission. From Chuck. For me. "What is it?"

"Sam and Dean must get together."

I think of the Winchesters earlier that evening, leaning close over the library table, their heads nearly touching as they examined books of lore and fantasy, seeking evidence for their theories on the realism of fictional dragons. Confused, I look down at Chuck. "They are always together."

"No. They need to get. Together." He makes a gesture.

I figure it out. "But they're brothers." Chuck might be more permissive than the Gods of other universes, but some behaviors are still considered sins.

"They're also soulmates."

I think of the last time I saw Chuck. Of Dean saying goodbye to us in that graveyard before leaving on what he thought was a suicide mission. He had told me earlier that I was his brother but all he could talk about during his last moments with me was his actual brother. His entire focus was on Sam.

I think about the time the Winchesters had a pizza party with Charlie (who is now enjoying an eternity in a heaven that resembles those fantasy movies Sam loves so much) and me. Sam and Dean hadn't taken their eyes away from each other for the entire evening.

I think of soulless Sam stalking Dean, making sure Dean never saw him, unable to stay away for longer than a couple of weeks at a time, until the day when he had an excuse to tempt Dean into hunting with him again. Without a soul, Sam had been incapable of caring about Dean but he had wanted, even needed, to be with him. Because the other half of his soul resided within Dean.

I look back at Chuck, convinced. He had been silently waiting, perhaps following my thought processes, a patient smile curving his lips.

He says, "The soul bond must be activated. The only way to do that is . . ."

"Consummation. I know. I have friends who are cupids."

He nods.

"But," I ask, "Why?--Why does this need to happen?"

He glances at the screen of Dean's laptop. The video is paused on River's flirtatious, mysterious, amused smirk. "Spoilers," he says, and vanishes.


	2. First Attempt

Dean's POV

"You should go to a bar. A nice bar. You could buy each other drinks and talk." Castiel's huge, earnest blue eyes stare intently into first mine, then Sam's, as he makes this suggestion.

I glance at Sam. He's grinning affectionately at Cas, dimples on full display. So, I say, "There's one across the street from our motel."

Sam looks at me then. "I think he means a nicer place than your usual dives." He dimples at Cas again. "And since Cas cracked the case, he should get a say in the matter." This is true: Cas figured out that we were dealing with a rogue angel. Takes one to know one, I suppose. Sam takes out his phone. "I'll find one."

Twenty minutes later, we're walking into a large, airy bar filled with well-dressed twenty and thirty somethings. There are intimate corners, an open spot for dancing (complete with terrible contemporary music), and a long, curving bar. It's nothing like the places we usually frequent and I wonder again why Cas (and Sam) wanted to come here. Won't we feel uncomfortably out of place?

But the gazes that turn to watch us are filled with admiration. We are, after all, three good-looking men. I saunter in, appreciating the way most of the women study at my brother and friend before fixing their eyes on me--although a significant number show a clear preference for Sam and Cas. The men are a different story. Half of them glance at us indifferently before returning to their drinks and dates. The other half (all of those with even the smallest amount of same-sex attraction) gape at Sam. I stop myself from rolling my eyes. I realized years ago that if I ever decide to indulge my bisexual tendencies I will have to make certain Sam isn't with me to distract all the men. I think it has something to do with the contradictions of his intimidating height, his sweet face, his pronounced jawline, his long hair, and the steel behind his soft eyes. Too bad he's so arrow-straight that all he notices is the number of pretty girls eyeing me.

I hop on an empty stool at the bar and order a beer. Sam claims the seat beside me and thoughtfully considers all of the options before making a selection in what sounds like gibberish but must be a french wine based on the rs rolling delectably off his tongue. The bartender looks a little dazed as he turns to Cas. Who looks equally dazed as he murmurs that he wants the same. This time I do roll my eyes. Good thing Cas isn't my type. (He's pretty but a little too naive. In many ways, he feels more like my little brother than my actual little brother).

I realized I was bi the summer after I turned seventeen. Sammy and I were visiting the only public pool in the dinky Iowa town we were staying in. I had just settled into my chair and slipped on my sunglasses with plans to spend the next hour admiring scantily-clad women when a boy around my age walked past in nothing but a speedo. He was all lean, tan, muscles. My heart stuttered and I dug my nails into my palms at the realization that I wanted to run my hands down that torso. I heard a slight sound beside me. My thirteen -year-old brother was crossing his legs. His face was red and his breathing just a little heavier than it should have been. I wondered if he'd noticed the hot swimmer, too. It would give us something to talk about. I had noticed that the older Sam got, the less we seemed to have in common. But. I followed his line of site to find that he'd been staring at a pretty little redhead in a bikini. 

I've never gone all the way with a guy--there are just so many attractive girls in the world--but I have kissed a few of them. Okay, three.

The first time was not long after I turned twenty-three. Sam was at Stanford, Dad was on a hunt in Washington or somewhere, and I had thought Why not?, so I picked up the cute boy I met at the bar. I pushed him against the brick wall, smashing my mouth against his. He was making breathy little moans as his long brown hair tickled my cheek. Wait. Long brown hair? I stepped back and looked at him, three thoughts racing through my brain. 1) I had subconsciously chosen a boy who looked like Sam. I must miss him more than I realized. 2) My subconscious got it wrong. Sam would never be so submissive with his romantic partners. Living in such close quarters meant that I had occasionally seen him with a girl. There was never any doubt who was in charge. 3) I really needed to get out of there. I mumbled an apology and an excuse and ran off.

The second time was in Purgatory. Benny and I had just taken out several (very betrayed-looking) vampires. I was full of adrenaline and Benny was so burly and handsome and masculine and his accent was so sexy that I was kissing him before any rational thoughts of why this might be a bad idea went through my head. Things probably would have progressed further. But then we heard werewolf howls. Then we found Cas. And once we made it back to earth, I was focused on Sam and he was focused on locating his maker. And we were never that close again.

The third was Crowley. I noticed not long after picking Sam up from Stanford that men would befriend me in hopes of learning the secret to my brother's . . . heart isn't the right word. They wanted the secret to his bed. I never expected one of those men to be the King of Hell. I ignored all of his hints and loaded questions and the occasional plea directed at Sam to see him in a different light. I pretended ignorance of his crush, even to myself. Until I became a demon. During those months of twisted self-indulgence, I decided to wrest Crowley's devotion from my brother--make him fall for me instead. I succeeded. But when he finally ventured a kiss, I coldly rebuffed him. I gaslighted him into thinking that all my flirtation was in his head. Sometimes I regret it. But the result was a powerful ally (and friend, even) who eventually sacrificed his life for me. Strange how things work out.

Sam is chatting with Cas, showering him with dimples and glowing eyes. He's always happy when Cas is around. I am too--he's the person I love the most, after Sam--but I'm always slightly tense when he's with us, wondering how long he'll stay, when he'll find his next mission and take off. I admire and envy the fact that Sam has no such fear of abandonment. 

Castiel is telling Sam: "You should buy Dean a drink."

Sam gives him a grin before turning to me. "Want another beer, Dean?"

"Sure." I signal the bartender.

Cas looks a little confused. "That wasn't . . . that wasn't what I meant."

Sam's dimples blink in and out of existence as he tries not to laugh. "The thing is, Cas, this is all on one tab."

I add, "So, we are buying each other drinks. In a way"

He nods and takes a sip of his wine. I wonder why this matters so much to him.

*

I'm crossing the bar after a bathroom break, smiling at the hottest girls and contemplating convincing one of them to take me home. First, though, my big brother instincts have me checking to see what Sam is up to.

He has spun around on his stool, so that he can lean against the edge of the bar and stretch out his long legs. I wonder if he's aware that this position shows off his tall, muscular frame to perfection. Likely not. Only when soulless did Sam seem at all aware of his charms. He reaches up one large, slender hand to push back a lock of hair that has fallen across one high, shapely cheekbone. 

"Beautiful," a voice murmurs beside me. The speaker is a girl. Blonde highlights, late twenties, athletic figure. Sam's type.

I'm shocked to realize I'm nodding in agreement. I force myself to shrug, to think So what? Sam is beautiful. Statement of fact. It's not weird that I would notice. Besides, I'm far from the only one who has. A buff man to my left is gaping at my brother while rubbing his bottom, as if imagining Sam caressing him there. A flamboyant man to my right is appraising Sam and Cas, likely trying to guess at their relationship. I'm not surprised when he quirks his lips a second later. Sam's body language screams that Cas is just a friend. (The same can't be said for Cas based on the admiring glances he's sneaking at Sam's flannel-covered torso).

It occurs to me that I had better hurry over there before one of these leering dudes takes my seat. 

The moment I get there, Castiel says brightly, "You should go dance."

"Um, what?' I glance at Sam, who is looking equally blank.

"You and Sam should dance."

Sam shakes his head as he stands up. "You're calling the shots tonight, Cas. So, okay." He walks over to the girl who called him beautiful. As he leads her to the dance floor, he turns to smirk at me. Sam likes to remind me that the only reason why he doesn't get laid more often is his dislike of casual sex. As if I didn't know how many women (to say nothing of all the amorous men) would love to have him for one night.

The music is cringe-inducing, but Sam's grace as he moves to its beat make me almost appreciate it. Not surprising that he would be a good dancer. I've watched him fight. The fluidity of those long limbs flashing as he takes out a ring of monsters. Dancing isn't all that different, movement wise.

Cas sees me staring. " Go ask Sam to dance."

"What?" He can't mean what I think he means. After all, Cas has always been ignorant when it comes to the intricacies of human interactions. 

"Just tell him it's what I want." He gestures at Sam.

Before I entirely realize what I'm doing, I'm standing in front of my brother. He's smiling down as the blonde girl writes her number on his hand before following her friends out the door with a shy wave. 

His smile fades in surprise when he turns to find me standing before him.

"Want to dance, brother?" Did I really just say that?

His lips twitch. "Let me guess: Cas wants us to?"

I nod.

He laughs. 

I feel my face heat up. I'm going to be rejected for a dance by my own brother.

"Okay, then," he says, still grinning, and holds out his hand.

A moment later, I'm swaying in Sam's arms as I stare up into his gorgeous hazel eyes. I'm vaguely aware that my newfound attraction to my brother should disturb me but I'm too content, too happy, too breathless to care.


	3. Second Attempt

Sam's POV

There are reports of a faith healer popping up all over the midwest. I'm not sure if there's a case here or not. Sometimes what looks like a pattern is really just a bunch of curious coincidences. And sometimes events actually are as benign as they seem. I have sometimes wondered what my psychic powers would have been like if they hadn't been tainted with demon blood. I could imagine a more--pure--individual having the ability to heal people with his or her mind. His mind. I lean closer to my laptop as I click on a few more links. The stories all seem to reference a male faith healer. 

"Finding anything interesting?" A cup of coffee appears at my elbow. I look up to find that Dean is there--right there--leaning across me to peer at my laptop, the warmth of his body pressing against my side.

I move away slightly. Dean and I have always been close--far closer than normal siblings--but lately it seems like he takes every opportunity to touch me or lean into me. "Yeah, maybe," I say. "So, get this: some guy has been going around healing people. Mostly children and older people. And they all seem to be connected to restaurant owners."

"Hmm. That is interesting." Dean's attention is on me instead of my computer. He reaches over to tuck a lock of my hair behind my ear. I wonder if he's heard a word I said.

That's another new development. I keep catching Dean staring at me. We've been living and hunting together for so long that I can usually read his every expression (our friends tell us it's eerie how in-sync we are) but not this time. I can't tell if he's looking at me with concern, affection, amusement or what.

I'm saved from my fruitless deliberations by the familiar screech of the bunker door opening. "Hey, Cas."

Dean jumps away from me. He's several feet away before he echoes, "Hey, Cas."

Castiel regards him impassively. I suspect Dean's behavior has always been a bit of a mystery to him. "I have a voucher for a meal for two at a steakhouse." He holds up a piece of paper.

Dean forgets whatever was making him jumpy and grins. "Awesome! Let's go, Cas!"

Cas' calm expression doesn't change. "I don't eat. Take Sam."

Dean glances in my direction. I wonder if the lighting is making his face look red. "Okay." He turns to me, "Ready for some steak, Sammy?"

I hesitate. I'm getting the sense that I'm missing something.

Dean's face turns pleading. "I'm sure they have salads there. Or chicken. Come on."

I can't help the amused smirk that lifts my lip. "Okay."

Cas is still looking at Dean. "It's a nice restaurant," he says. "Wear something nice."

Dean glances down at his red flannel, black tee shirt, and jeans. I expect him to argue (truthfully) that he already looks nice, but he doesn't. Instead, he shrugs and heads out of the library.

I take the voucher from Cas. Not only is it a meal for two, like he said, but it includes drinks. And . . . . My mouth drops open when I spot the name of the restaurant. By "nice," Cas had meant insanely fancy/expensive. Hundreds of dollars per couple. "How," I swallow before continuing, "How did you get this?"

"I healed his son's leukemia."

It clicks. Now I know the identity of my mysterious faith healer. Guess Dean and I don't have a case. "Um, Cas, have you been going around healing people just so that someone would give you--us--a free meal?"

"You and Dean need a night out."

*

I'm dressed as well as anyone in the restaurant (in the dimness of the mood lighting, anyway) but I still feel uncomfortably out of place. The same can't be said for Dean, based on his confident swagger, winks, and easy grins. But, then, Dean manages to look at home wherever he goes.

The waitress seems to agree. She barely looks at me when she asks for our drink orders. My brother is a handsome man no matter what he wears, but there's no denying that his green button-down brings out his eyes. I expect I'll be invisible beside him for the rest of the evening. Not a new phenomenon. I realized my brother was unusually good-looking when I was twelve and I noticed that the girls I was just starting to find appealing were all focused on Dean. This changed as a grew older: now, there are plenty of women who prefer me, plenty who seem to find us equally attractive, but most seem to see Dean and no one else.

Dean's leaning forward, talking to the waitress. "Sammy will have your best red wine."

I might have argued that I could order for myself, thank you, but I'm too busy rolling my eyes at the breathless way the girl asks Dean, "And what about you?--What do you want?"

He winks at her. "How about your best beer?"

She's stumbling as she makes her way back to the kitchen.

I'm spared from the eye strain of rolling my eyes too hard by my phone beeping. I smile when I see the name. Speaking (or, more accurately, thinking) of girls who actually prefer me.

"Who's Suzanne?"

"She's that girl I met at the club." He looks blank. "You know, the one I danced with?"

The flash of red on his face fades until he's very white. "Oh," he says. "I didn't realize you kept in touch with her."

I shrug. "She's hot and funny and educated." 

He frowns.

"And she only lives a couple hours from the bunker."

"Yeah, but . . . ."

"And she's focused on her career, so neither of us is looking for something serious."

For a moment, Dean looks devastated. Then, he blinks and clears his face of all emotion.

This, more than anything, convinces me that something is wrong.

I use the distraction of our drinks arriving to observe Dean. He's taking a sip of beer and ordering a medium rare steak. So far, so normal. I ask for grilled chicken. The waitress leaves. Dean is toying with his napkin.

"What did she want?" He doesn't look at me.

"What? Who?"

"The . . . . Suzanne."

"Oh." I'd forgotten to check the message she sent me. "She wants to meet up this weekend."

He sighs. Forces a smile. "Well. Good for you. You could use some action."

It hits me that Dean's behavior had changed around the time I met Suzanne. Why though? I'd gotten a little drunk and spoiled Castiel (he cracked the case!) by letting him decide how we celebrated. By doing everything he wanted. Oh. That included dancing with Dean. It had seemed like a strange request, but Cas doesn't really get the intricacies of human interactions--doesn't get why slow dancing isn't a typical brother interaction. (We've never been typical brothers anyway). I had figured that he just wanted to watch Dean dance. I'm pretty sure Cas has a bit of a crush on him. In fact, I've considered suggesting Dean go for it, but I'm always stopped by two concerns: 1) Dean has never come out to me and I think it is entirely up to him when or if he does so. 2) I'm pretty sure Cas isn't his type. The men I see him ogling are almost invariably tall and muscular. Still though, there must be something about that dance that's bothering him. It's the only explanation. How to ask though?

"Is there something going on with you, Dean?"?

"No. Of course not. Why would there be?" His sentences are racing each other and his face is flaming red. That would be a yes, then.

"Are you still weirded out by that dance?"

His face softens. "No. It was . . . it was fun. Nice." He turns away. "Don't worry about me."

Come to think of it, it had been fun. Dean warm in my arms. The strobe lights painting his spiky hair green, red, blue, yellow, back to green. His eyes glowing as they peered up into mine. His full lips opening slightly as his breath grew heavier. (From exertion?). His beautiful face glistening. (From the lights? From sweat?).

I feel own breath grow heavier from the memory. Did I really just think of my brother as beautiful. I glance across the table. Sculpted cheekbones. Defined jawline. Green eyes blinking at me under long eyelashes. Eyes filled with depth and affection and something indefinable. Eyes like a trap that catches me.


	4. Third Attempt

Dean's POV

Sam is perched at his table in library, surrounded by open books, open files, his open laptop, notepads, and pens. He would be the very picture of intellectual diligence if he was actually researching. He isn't. He hasn't written a word in an hour. He only turns a page when he sees me watching. Occasionally, he'll pretend to look something up on the internet, but I can tell that he's actually just mindlessly scrolling. Every so often, he'll sneak a glance at me. If I meet his gaze, he'll look away quickly, his face more red than tan. If I don't--if I force myself to keep my eyes on my own computer--he'll study me for several minutes. I'll stare unseeingly at the screen, my skin tingling as if his fingers, not just his hazel eyes, were upon me.

In some ways, this is familiar. We've gone through periods of days, weeks, even months of tension. Periods where we dance around whatever is currently dividing us--Ruby, Amelia, Benny, Gadreel--until our rage boils over into screams, sometimes punches, followed by separation. I wonder, now, if we fought so hard, so often, because we were repressing the real reason behind our unfounded jealousy, racing heartbeats, overblown outrage. After all, we always reunited so quickly. Simmering tension. A moment of passion. A cool down. It's so reminiscent of something else.

I risk another glance at Sam. He's chewing on inside of his cheek--a sure sign that his thoughts are stressing him out. Makes sense. If I'm angsting over one look--okay, two (this did start with my falling into those hazel eyes while dancing at the bar)--my analytical brother must be driving himself insane seeking logical explanations for late-onset incestuous feelings.

I really need a break from this. "I'm getting a beer," I say, standing up abruptly. "Want one?"

He clears his throat, shifts his position, runs one hand through his long hair. "Sure, okay." He peeks at me. "Thanks."

My brother really is beautiful.

*

I open one of the beers and hand it to Sam. Hazel eyes lift to my face, long fingers brush mine. I'm shivering as I walk around the table to my chair.

I settle into my seat and take a long sip of the cold, refreshing beverage. I've always been happiest spending quiet evenings drinking beer with Sam. Normally, though, there is actually a spot to set down my bottle. I frown as I realize the table is completely covered in the materials my brother is using to not research. He should really clear it away. A picture shapes in my head of Sam using those big hands to swipe all of the books, papers, and computers onto the floor, then replacing them with me.

I gasp. First I came to terms with the fact that I'm attracted to Sam, then that I'm in love with him, but now I want to be dominated by him?

Sam is looking at me, a perplexed line popping up on his forehead. "Are you okay?"

I quickly nod, hoping he doesn't notice my flush, and grateful that he can't see my lap.

Sam looks skeptical. His eyes start to widen into that puppy dog expression I can never resist. I'm going to tell him. But I'm not ready for our relationship to change. I know he feels the same way. What makes us such formidable hunting partners is the fact that we so rarely need words--the fact that we are so adept at reading each other's faces. When his eyes met mine in that restaurant, they had displayed the tenderness he felt for Jess, the unbridled lust he felt for Ruby, the fond empathy he felt for Amelia. Like I was the complete package of all of his love interests rolled into one.

I take a breath and open my mouth.

"I got concert tickets!" Castiel marches cheerfully into the room.

Sam and I exchange a glance. "Um, Cas," Sam ventures. "It's great that you're healing people, but, maybe, you shouldn't do it in hopes that they'll give you free meals or concert tickets or whatever."

Cas stretches to his full--average--height. "I bought them."

Sam's biting his cheek again, trying to find a polite way of asking what I am blunt enough to say straight out: "With what money?"

He looks chagrined. "A woman gave me a reward for healing her husband's spine."

Sam and I look at each other again, silently decide to let it go. It's not like he's harming anyone. "So," I ask, "What kind of music?"

"Well," he replies, "You and Sam disagree about almost every genre."

I nod. Sam shrugs.

"But you never argue about country."

"That's because neither of us likes country."

Cas looks directly at me, all righteous, glowing blue eyes. "That is not true. I used to have wings. I used to have invisibility. When you and Sam are separated, you listen to country music." He thrusts the tickets into Sam's hands and flounces off, leaving the two of us staring at each other.

*

The concert is fun. Both the slow songs and fast ones have us holding each other as we sway, sometimes dance, ignoring both the fond smiles and homophobic glares of those around us. Neither of us drinks anything, but we're both stumbling, high on love and lust and unresolved tension, when we reach the Impala.

Sam laughs a little as he puts one hand on Baby's roof. The wind spins and swirls through his gorgeous hair. I stop resisting--why was I resisting anyway?--and rise on tiptoes to kiss him.

*

Sam's POV

Dean is kissing me. It's heady and his lips are soft and the world is drifting away and I'm kissing back. He presses his hard, masculine body against mine. I freeze. My brother. I'm kissing my brother. After being straight for thirty-plus years, I'm kissing my brother. I pull away, gasping.

Dean is smirking up at me, his green eyes smoldering with the expression that has brought every woman he's ever wanted to his bed. "Tell me. Sam, are you having a crisis of morality or a crisis of sexuality?" He winks. "Or both?"

I shake my head in a vain attempt to clear it. "I've never even been attracted to a guy before."

He cocks his head. "So, the incest thing doesn't bother you?"

I pause for a second. "Incest is more a societal taboo than a moral one."

Dean is laughing. "So, if you really were Samantha, you wouldn't care."

His laugh is irresistible. "I would, because 'Samantha'"--I make air quotes--"Would be a lesbian. I really have never been into guys."

Dean stills. "Until now." It's almost a question.

I look at him. Lovely long-lashed eyes. High cheekbones. Lushly full lips. He's more beautiful than any woman I've ever made out with. But he's also wholly male. Short, spiky hair. Icy glimmer behind his eyes. Strong, defined jawline. Not to mention, the muscular planes of his body. I'm a little breathless as I nod, murmuring in agreement "Until now."

He raises an eyebrow, challenging me to abjure my heterosexuality, to kiss him, to claim him. 

I lean forward, press my lips to his. But a thought hits me and I pause. "I wonder why Cas has been trying to get us together?"

Dean grabs my jacket and pulls me to him. "I don't know." His voice is a soft growl. "We can thank him later."

I push him against the Impala, crashing our lips together.


	5. Epilogue

Castiel's POV:

I'm pacing the halls of the bunker, mentally paging through the pop-culture information gifted to me by Metatron. I could send the Winchesters to a carnival. They could win prizes for each other. I could put them on a Ferris wheel and make it stop at the top. Could I convince Dean to make Sam a candlelit dinner?

I just wish I was better at reading social cues. I'm really not sure if any of this is working. Part of the problem is that they were already extremely close. It's not unusual for Dean to put a hand on Sam's back while looking over his shoulder at his laptop screen. It's not unusual for the two of them to sit on the table, pressed against each other, while they drink. It's not unusual for them to stand far closer than is necessary while they discuss a case. It's not unusual for them to look startled when I speak, as if they had forgotten I was in the room. It's not unusual for them to be so focused on each other that they lose track of everything else. It wasn't so long ago, after all, that they had been so intent on each other that they didn't realize Kelly Kline was stealing Dean's beloved Baby. Right in front of him!

I do know that their soul bond hasn't yet been activated.

Maybe I could convince them to go see a movie. Do drive-ins still exist? Metatron imprinted my brain with many romantic scenes filmed at drive-ins. Or maybe . . . 

I hear a gasp. A cut-off scream. Muffled thuds.

I speed my steps, following the sounds to Dean's partially-opened door. 

A completely naked Sam is on top of an equally naked Dean, kissing him passionately, wildly, but, somehow, also tenderly.

I raise my eyebrows as I back away. Mission accomplished, then. I feel dazed by the realization. I completed my task. I was successful. Me. For once, I did something right, something good. I wish I still had a captain to report to, so that I could detail the steps I took to achieve. At the same time, I'm overjoyed that I can't. My best friends deserve their privacy. They deserve this happiness, after so many years of grief, loss, depression, pain. 

And they deserve some time alone to appreciate and grow accustomed to their new relationship.

I should go.

I leave a note saying I will be gone for a few weeks on Sam's pile of research materials and head for the door.

As I'm walking out, I feel a pulse. I turn. Silvery strands of light are dancing through the bunker. I blink, step forward, try to peer closer. There are two varieties. One is blinding white, but frayed and edged with red. I recognize Sam's soul. The other is a glowing, almost metallic silver, speckled with black. Dean. The strands undulate, weaving tighter and tighter until I can no longer differentiate between Sam's and Dean's. I hear a scream that sounds like "Sam!" followed by a shout of "Dean!" There's a flash, accompanied by a small earthquake. 

When the ground settles, everything looks the same as it always did, but nothing is.

I'm smiling as I drive away.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm convinced Chuck does pop in every so often. Checks on things, performs minor miracles, then heads back to Amara before anyone realizes he was there.


End file.
